Disclaimer: I do not own Star Ocean nor do I profit from writing this.
His hands were bound in thick, brown leather, and his arms were drawn tight, the muscles taut and sore with pressure. Long straps of the same brown leather had been stitched to the bands, keeping him in place on the slender stone slab, and the restraints were strong. Enchanted with the power, he believed, as if he were some kind of a threat and could break them with no effort whatsoever.
At one point, he may have been. Fayt could no longer truly recall. He had been whipped, kicked, slapped, and beaten with sticks before he was finally tied to the stone serving as his bed and bound with the enchanted leather. The young man recalled the sting and the pain from each blow, but he sensed no scars on his being. It was as if the people did not want him to know what they had done and had cured him the instant the assaults ceased. Fayt knew better, however, and he had felt the wounds healing in mere seconds, an indication he was special. From what he remembered, the appearance of scars was bad as were wounds not healing right away. They meant a person was impure, according to the whispers, and those who impure were exiled into the jungles. No one returned from the jungles, even those who had not been chased out of the village. They were instant death for anyone, even the strongest of warriors.
Fayt knew he was neither pure nor impure. He simply was and that made the people nervous. Strange symbols graced his arms and his face when they were beating him. They had faded away once the beatings stopped, but they were still there, buried under the flesh. The villagers did not know what the signs meant, but Fayt did. He had always known, and he knew what to expect.
Soon, someone would come and release him from his bonds. They wanted to be rid of him. They feared him, and, as a result, they would send him to the Creator, to duel, to claim something. The women would clean him and clothe him. He would be decorated as a warrior where a warrior had not been moments before, but they would not expect him back. Not now, not ever again. He was a taint to them, one best to be scrubbed away, even though he possessed no impurities.
Sure enough, the pressure in his arms and legs let up a few moments later, and Fayt was lifted into a sitting position. Water was brought to his lips and food placed before him. The sweat and dirt were washed from his body, and soft materials were slid onto his body followed by the adornments. A sword was placed into his hands, and Fayt nodded.
So the time had come. The mark of the condemned became the mark of the chosen one. He would fight to the death, the herald of fire and ice, the devil against god, and the destructor against the creator.
Luther had finally found him.